One of the best feelings in the world is when you hug someone you love, and they hug you back even tighter. ~Author unknown
I shifted uncomfortably in a metal folding chair as the women’s leader spoke to the young moms gathered at church on a sunny Friday morning.
“Do you hug your children?” The slim, brunette woman standing before the fireplace scanned the audience of attentive moms, who were all nodding. “I’m sure you do, but do you hug them long enough?”
She meant to encourage us with those words. However, eager to be a good mother, I felt like a failure.
As sunlight streamed through the windows of the cosy fireside room, Pam smiled and continued. “You might have a child who wants lots of hugs or one who needs longer hugs.” She crossed her arms over her chest and squeezed her shoulders with her open hands. “Why don’t you try staying in the hug until your child breaks it off?”
At ten years old, my fun-loving yet reserved son, Robby, often asked for hugs. But I shied away from lingering touches because I didn’t receive a lot of physical affection growing up. I wanted a quick hug to be enough for him.
The older, experienced woman continued her lecture, and my thoughts drifted to my childhood. As missionary teachers in a rural Nigerian village, my parents raised my four siblings and me in that beautiful country among its wonderful people.
However, at age six, my parents sent me to a missionary boarding school four hundred miles from home. Dorm mothers didn’t give many hugs. Instead, a hurried kiss on the head served as a bedtime ritual.
Soon after I arrived for first grade, I fell on the playground and skinned my knee. I limped to the nurse’s office where I plopped down on a wooden bench with seven other kids in the waiting room. When it was my turn, the school nurse roughly cleaned the wound, pressed on a bandage, and sent me on my way. I bit my lip and fled to my room where I threw myself on the bed. In that silent, lonely dorm room, I sobbed rivers of tears into my pillow. All I wanted was my mother to hold me. Nobody consoled me, so over time I buried my need for comfort and affection and learned to take care of myself.
That independence served me well when I married Chris and we raised three children. As a pilot, my husband flew away for half of each month, leaving me to parent alone.
At each goodbye, I blocked out my grief and focused on the day’s duties. Brusque and organised, I looked competent, driving three kids to their classes, practices, and games on my own. However, by cutting off my emotions, I unintentionally lost the ability to be a cheerful mom.
Pam’s voice drew me to the present as she sent us into our small-group discussions. With only four other moms, I felt comfortable sharing, but I also wanted to defend myself. “I’m worried my son’s love tank gets only partly filled each day. But at least he doesn’t live at a boarding school.”
One of them patted my hand. “You’re doing a fine job. I’ve seen you hug him plenty of times.”
That afternoon, when Robby walked in the door after school, he tossed his backpack on the couch and then sauntered into the kitchen. “What’s for snack?”
I stepped toward him. “Could I give you a hug first?”
“Sure, Mom!”
In front of the fridge, we stood with our arms around each other. I was determined not to break first.
After what seemed like an eternity but was probably just two minutes, he sighed. “I’m looking forward to Christmas.”
I chuckled over the top of his blond head and pulled him closer.
After that day in the kitchen, I realised the significant comfort these hugs brought to him. They became a daily habit – one that we kept even through Robby’s teenage years.
Now in his twenties, my lanky son lives at home while job hunting. Over the past two years, he walked through some deep valleys. Sheltering at home in 2020 for Covid-19 restrictions brought anxiety and depression for him. I’m so glad we’d already made healing hugs part of our daily routine.
On the days when Dad is home, he joins in, and we bask in the warmth of a group hug.
Our now-happy son says, “This is the best part of my day!”
It’s the best part of my day, too. The habit that began as a way to connect with Robby has brought me healing. Sandwiched between my son and my husband, I feel wrapped in a warm cocoon.
The long family hugs make up for the comforting cuddles I missed in my childhood. I’m always the last to let go.